


Blue

by alrightinbed_betterwithapen



Category: Video Blogging RPF, vlog squad
Genre: Breathplay, Bruises, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Drinking, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hair-pulling, Lack of Communication, Panic Attacks, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sub Drop, bruise kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alrightinbed_betterwithapen/pseuds/alrightinbed_betterwithapen
Summary: You never did claim you were smart when it comes to David. He’s turning in his seat to look at you and, of course, you shudder slightly.You won’t leave until he tells you to...It really was a simple arrangement at first.





	1. One

—- x —-

Blue.

You liked blue the best. Green was a close second though.

You could lose track of time while staring at the deep blue that the bruise on your upper thigh was changing into. The bruise that started as a murky, ink water looking black color, was now blossoming into a sickly navy around the edges, the center of it still dark and swampy.

The green would appear in the next half day, ease its way next to the bluish, blackish mess. It would make itself a home where the blue began, right along the edge. Maybe they would mix and create a painful yellow, a yellow you’d push at.

Hard.

Deep.

Angry.

Yellow was pretty, but you couldn’t accept it. No. Because yellow meant almost healed. Yellow meant in recovery. And there was no way in hell you’d allow your bruises to heal.

No, not when the rest of you was so, so not ready to get better.

Not if this was what being hurt meant.

You _loved_ blue.

—- x —-

The hands gripping your upper thighs is too much. Too painful. Too heavy.

You let out a whimper, even though your whole body is shaking as you try holding it back.

“Oh,” he says, emotionless, “Oh no,” then his hands are gone. Pushing back off your thighs, pushing so your balance sways from where you are seated on the edge of the black upholstered pool table. Your legs still spread from where he stood just moments before.

David stands in front of you, an arms reach or two away, still and unmoving. His eyes hold the same anger you’ve become use to with him, hands clenched at his sides. His lips are swollen, but probably not as red or obvious as the trail of biting, stinging kisses he was just leaving from your collarbone and up your neck.

“You made a sound. I thought we discussed this earlier”, he murmurs through almost closed lips. His eyes never waver, never blink. All you can do is try to lessen the squirm that makes its way out of you.

Disappointment radiates down his body as he tips his head to the left, cracking his neck, and bring his arms crossed on his chest.

“We- you did. I’m sor-“ and the words tumble out before you can stop them.

He hates apologies. He also hates when you disobey the very clear cut rules he has started laying out at the beginning of each of these visits.

“Eh!” He tuts, livid, successfully shushing whatever your half baked excuse was going to be. Then he’s moving forwards, faster than you can comprehend, to grip your jaw in his left hand. He uses enough force that his fingers slip up and make your lips purse, eyes going wide. You can’t stop them from tearing up.

You have a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Your Uber will be here in a bit. Make sure you wait outside.”

His words hang in the air as he drops his hand from you, retracting sharply. Then there’s this sneer, slightly over drawn on his lips, but spitting venom nonetheless.

Then, there’s his back turned to you, walking across the living space and down his hallway.

Then there’s you, perched on the edge of a pool table, alone.

This is the first time he leaves bruises.

—- x —-

The only concealer that worked to cover the slight bruise on your jaw was expensive and you’re damn glad the worst of it was on your thighs. ‘Cause fuck, this is not something you wanted to add to your routine, financially or physical.

Your phone dings when a new message comes in. You finish wiping off the last of your days makeup, the deep yellow bruise appearing fully on the bottom half of your face.

**Picking you up at 4am. Don’t make me wait.**

It was fifteen past seven in the evening. You had a late lunch around four, and to be honest, your appetite hadn’t been right since you had been kicked out by him three nights ago. But, you weren’t ready for bed. You weren’t even that tired yet, but also, not nearly amped enough to stay up until the earliest of morning hours.

No. No way.

Fuck.

You’re already making your way to find pajamas to lay out, as you finished the internal struggle in your head. Why fight? It’s obvious which side wins.

Fuck him.

The octave skipping groan you let out into your bedroom does makes you feel a little bit better. It’s just slightly cathartic. It make you feel a little more in control of this evening.

Then, you’re walking briskly back to the bathroom to have a quick shower and jump into bed.

Fuck me.

Your desire to finish what was stopped so abruptly, is waaay out weighing your need to stand up for yourself. Not tonight.

Tonight, you’ll listen if it _kills_ you.

—- x —-

The crisp air of the early morning makes your skin prickle. It charges every atom in your body for what you hope happens tonight… this morning. Whatever. It also helps wake your ass up.

It’s twenty til four. You had set your alarm for fifteen past three, because you’re pathetic and desperate. But you’ve never pretended to be anything less with David. Otherwise, this whole dynamic would never work.

Your hands itch for a cigarette, the menthol ones sitting in front of you on the sleek, white outdoor table on your balcony. They’re only a slight reach away, but that’s a fifty/fifty gamble, isn’t it?

David’s pulled a cigarette from between your lips and thrown it to the ground before. All while whispering obscenities about pretty girls who taste like tar in your ear. But later that night, he was licking into your mouth trying to chase the taste and then he fucked you stupid.

So, all bets are off.

You decide to not tempt fate as your phone starts beeping three shrill notes before pausing, getting ready to beep again. It’s sad how fast you answer, pathetic really.

“Are you up?”

It’s ten til four now. You breathe a sigh of relief and say, “Yeah, I’m waiting on my balcony. I’ve been up for half an hour.”

You literally cringe at yourself, so forthcoming with him, down to the most mundane details. You shrink in your seat and bring you legs up to your chest, and then back down, jittery with nerves. His deep, ringing laughter sounds through the phone and doesn’t help you relax at all.

“ _Good girl_ ,” he purrs, amusement still thick in his low growling voice. “Now, get downstairs.”

The line dies before you can reply, thankfully. You would have betrayed yourself again, a sheepish _Yes Sir_ bound to have come out of you weakly. And knowing your luck, he would be in a _Yes Daddy_ mood and your night would start with a punishment that would get you off, but leave you empty.

You’re up, grabbing your phone and keys, bee lining for the door. With your old white Vans slipped on and black zip up hoodie pulled around your frame, you glance to the mirror just right of your front door. Your jaw bruise is more faded than a couple hours ago, but noticeable. Your hair is tamed, but still a mess and there’s not a bit of makeup on your sleepy face. David doesn’t like make up on you. He hates the way the mascara and tears stain your cheeks.

The walk out your door and down to him feels equally like a short journey to salvation and a long crawl towards hell. You are always torn, it’s what you want, but not quite. He’s not enough and far too much, and you’re addicted.

As you make your way to the edges of the parking lot, you can see his blue light illuminated face tilted down towards his phone. His brow is furrowed and you have a feeling you’re in for it tonight. He doesn’t glance up as you wait for him to open the passenger side door of his white, shiny Tesla, but his fingers push the button. He doesn’t acknowledge you while you get seated and start to buckle up, except to prod at the same button to close the door. He pulls at neck of his red hoodie, and sits up to drive.

You could speak first, but the fear of setting him off stops you. He’s pulling out of the parking space, phone haphazardly being thrown into the center console. It’s when you’re pulling the seat belt the final few inches around your body to secure, that he reaches over to grab your wrist, stopping you.

“You don’t trust my driving?”

What a loaded fucking question. It’s like he’s trying to get you to piss him off, and that’s a bad sign in itself. You’re stuck staring at his profile while he gazes out onto the road.

He means, you don’t trust _me_?

No. Not particularly. You barely trust him with your orgasms (and that has shown to be a bad idea lately), let alone your life.

But that’s not a wise answer. That’s a very stupid answer. Especially since his knuckles are slowly growing white as his grip tightens on the wheel. He’s growing impatient while waiting for a response.

You drop the seat belt from your hand, the hand David hadn’t dropped yet, and let it snap back to where it rests near the door. The beginnings of a smirk make his lips tilt up. He still doesn’t look at you as he pulls his hand back. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

The red imprint of his fingers around your wrist where his hand had held you moments ago was already fading away. Not a bruise this time. Why did that make you ache?

“Besides, you can’t blow me with your seat belt on,” he says so, _so_ casually, you have to stop yourself from recoiling.

He still doesn’t fucking look at you. And you have to make your eyes stop being so god damn wide as his left hand goes to push down his black sweatpants past his hips to settle on his upper thighs. He’s just slightly hard, and you salivate. You’re pushing your self up on the seat and across the console in two long blinks (and far too quickly to be called anything other than needy). Your eyes look down to his growing member and then up to his face, over and over. You’re licking your lips before pooling the saliva in your mouth to the front, getting ready to sloppily and messy take him in.

His right hand sharply stops you, quickly tangling itself in the back of your hair and pulling you to a stop. There might have been a beep from the car signaling self drive mode was activated while you made your way over the console, but you can’t be sure. What you are aware of is the hand still gripped in your hair and the other reaching to your jaw, fitting nicely onto the bruise still lingering, to pull your face level with his.

He looks right through you.

“I didn’t say you could start,” he says with an adoring tilt to his voice that is counter active to the way he pulls at your hair harder and grips your jaw tighter. You’re being pushed forcefully back into the passenger seat like a rag doll and then he’s back to his natural position at the wheel. Staring straight ahead as goes to enable control of the vehicle and swiftly pull up the waistband of his pants. His amused, smitten voice unchanging when he says, “So eager that you don’t wait for my orders. Should I turn around, drop you back off?”

His left index and middle finger tap the wheel pointedly, staggered. The sound looms in your silence. You shake your head and murmur the quietest _No_ you can muster. You back is flat against the passenger door where he tossed you. You can only stare ahead at him. Frozen.

“Tonight, you do not take initiative, you do what I tell you. You don’t speak or make noises unless I allow you to. You don’t think for yourself, at all. Starting now.”

You think his words should be a question. You think there should be a negotiation and an open line of communication. You think, this is the moment where you should be able to say “no,” and “ _please_ , not tonight,” and “I just want to make you feel good, I want to be good for you but I can’t under those terms.”

But that’s not how this works. That’s not how this had ever worked.

He watches you, from the corner of his eye, nod twice in your seat. His tilted smirk lights his face up with mischief. He doesn’t look at you for the rest of the ride to his house.

—- x —-

This whole arrangement had been perfect for the both of you, and casual as hell. It was the ideal way to compartmentalize the hectic schedules you both survived every day. You each had your own busy lives that neither of you felt the need to mix and complicate with a full functioning relationship. Not when it was really only the lack of sex that put you both on edge and unable to focus on your own lives and careers. The two of you were similar in this aspect, workaholics with control and self care issues.

This though, the pain and dominance or whatever, this was newer.

He had started this several weeks ago, with a simple request to not move a fucking muscle after he changed positions. He repositioned you on your knees, elbows bracing your weight under you and ass pulled up high. Even after his brutal thrusts had returned, you didn’t tremble or shake. You didn’t shift your weight or adjust your elbows. You were still. And David came embarrassingly fast.

But you’re one to talk, you came twice before he did, sweating profusely with the exertion of not moving.

From then, it was in everything you did. The requests became bolder and started appearing earlier in the nights you spent together. His requests quickly turned to orders over the course of three and a half weeks to the point you’re at now.

Just waiting, silently, in his car for the instructions to get out and follow him as he kills the engine.

You can’t remember the last time you were able to ask him how his day was. Even if it was an empty pleasantry, you did kind of miss it. You missed feeling like every thing you did around him wasn’t a fuck up.

You’re not sure if he’s gotten angrier or just accepted himself more, but the sudden changes in him has given you emotional whiplash along side the marks he physically left. You hated this as much as you loved it.

And if you were smart, you’d cut this shit off right now. You’d get out, call your own Uber and fucking wait for it at the curb outside the gates to his property, like you did last night. You’d cut your losses and high tail it before you broke completely under his will.

Well, you never did claim you were smart when it comes to David.

He’s turning in his seat to look at you and, of course, you shudder slightly. You won’t leave until he tells you to.

It really was a simple arrangement at first.

—- x —-


	2. Two

—- x —-

You liked his lips best.

They were always so kind and gentle on your skin, never marring or marking like the rest of him. Kisses were left in their wake instead of bruises. It had felt like forever since he’s held you and kissed you before taking you to his bedroom. You long for those dizzy evenings filled with slightly drunk make out sessions on the patch of grass in his backyard. You were never scared of the marks he’d leave then. Never had to think about how you’d be eyed worriedly by your Uber driver or a passing neighbor as you trudged you way back to your apartment in WeHo.

David left pretty marks back then. Marks that had others giving you that sultry, knowing look, _you got fucked good, huh?_ Now, all the looks said, _aw poor thing, who treats her like that?_

You miss his lips.

—- x —-

Your kneeling on his bedroom floor, dead center in front of his giant bed, hands laying gently against the top of your bare thighs. He had demanded your clothes off as you’d crossed the threshold to his room, his back turned to you and a few paces ahead. You had stripped completely before he turned around. You were proud of that, he didn’t seem to care.

And honestly, you’re still thanking the gods that you got to his room this time before being, literally, sexiled. You’re actively trying to turn off your mind for him and it’s working, for now. But you don’t really have faith that you’ll last the night.

His red hoodie is crumpled near his floor to ceiling windows looking out over LA, the city still pitch black and sleeping. Directly across from you, David leans back on his dresser, shirtless, his sweatpants sagging low on his hips. His arms are crossed in front of him and he’s staring you down. His eyes are begging you to make a move, begging you to set him off. You can’t break his gaze, but you don’t move an inch.

He’s pushing off the dresser, gracefully crossing the distance between the two of you. Then he’s right in front of you. You’re eye level with his waist band, but you maintain his gaze even still. You expect a fond look to blossom across his features, maybe happy with you for once. Instead, his face contorts into a familiar sneer.

“Open your mouth. If your hands move at all on your thighs, you’re _fucked_ ,” he mutters, pushing his sweatpants down his hips, they fall listlessly to the ground. You nod, wordlessly, and lean forward, eyes wide and wanting as you take in the sight of his now fully hard cock. You’re mouth is already open, must have opened without your permission the moment the words left his lips. With the same hand as in his car, he pulls your head back sharply by your hair and hisses, “ _Listen!_ I said, open your mouth, not, take my cock in your mouth. You’ll learn eventually, needy little slut.”

Then he’s slamming your face forward onto his dick, forced into your still open mouth. You gag several times, your eyes squeezed shut, and it makes him chuckle low in his throat.

“That’s okay, baby girl. I don’t plan on being nice. Make all the noise you want.”

It’s as he starts to rock his hips, getting a feel for your mouth and letting you adjust to his pace for only a passing moment that you’re extremely glad you don’t need to hold back your needy little sounds too. Focusing on your arms was hard enough. They remained unwavering from their place atop your legs as you moaned around him. You badly want to dig your nails into your skin, just once, real quick. You peek up and David’s head is thrown back now, taking in the sensation of fucking your throat with vigor. He wouldn’t see you do it, no. You could sneak that… but, he’d see the marks. The marks he knows he hadn’t made yet. And he’d know you had disobeyed him once again.

So, you breathe through your nose and open your throat as much as possible without uncurling your lips from around your teeth. A harsh slap to your right cheek makes your eyes jump back up to his, a stream of tears slipping out, as he grunts at you from between clenched teeth, “Stop fucking thinking! I can feel it through my dick. Is your mouth not even good for fucking?! Jesus!”

He’s still pounding in and out though.

Your insides flinch in agony for not pleasing him, while your mind focuses every ounce of will into not moving your arms. You hope your gaze is giving off how much you are trying to submit to him, how much you just want to follow the rules. He cups your cheek then, thumb coming up to smear the tears into your skin and fingers anchoring themselves by nails biting into your skin. He never did stop fucking your throat. His sneer is still perfectly in place. Your body forces your eyes closed again.

You can’t help the guttural sound that rips from your throat when he buries himself in deep, your nose forced to press into his dark brown curls, and then stops moving altogether. You can’t stop the throb from your pelvis or the wetness that you can feel seeping from you. Both his hands are knotted in your hair now, pulling just on the edge of too much while holding you firm against him. He stands unmoving while you try to flex your throat around him, while you try to make it feel good for him. His loud groan that fills the room sounds annoyed but also on edge, so you start swallowing around him and trying to make patterns with your tongue on the base of his dick.

Your entire body pulses with want even with your jaw forced open painfully around him as he ruts into your throat in small, sharp movements. There’s drool running down both sides of your mouth and you’re not sure if the wet mess your face had become is due to the saliva or the tears. Probably a mix of both. You know that your face has to be a blotchy red color by now, flush with blood just under the skin from the abuse it was taking. You hoped you looked good for him.

Suddenly, both of his hands are letting the strands of your hair fall through his fingers, grip going from one hundred to zero real quick. Before you can process that, or the last quick jerk of his hips into your mouth, there’s his right hand wrapping around your throat, jerking you to your feet with no patience or kindness.

You let out a long shuddering gasp as you snap your eyes open, trying to reacquaint a full drag of oxygen to your lungs, but that’s stopped quickly by David’s hand, which tightens painfully. Then you notice his eyes, ablaze with want and anger. Your jaw aches, but hangs open none the less, as you allow his steely eyes to pierce through yours. You arms hang limply at your sides as he breathes out hard and it sounds like he’s on the broken side of ragged. Yet, his fingers never falter from your neck, no, they squeeze harder.

He’s guiding you by your throat backwards over the bed, the back of your legs hit the edge and you fall. David keeps his balance, still death gripping your neck, while crawling over your prone form on his California King bed. He’s much too graceful for someone so aroused and so pissed. He pushes your upper half flat to the mattress by your throat with a new level of force that has darkness swimming around the edges of your vision, his angry form looming in the center.

Something snaps in you, something inside lets go. You can’t focus on him anymore. You can guess your eyes are starting to roll back, but it’s not from pleasure yet. If you had just gotten that one, full draw of oxygen, maybe-

Then everything is black and you don’t know if you closed your eyes or you’re slowly passing out, but it’s glorious. You can finally stop forcing your body and you mind down, you can release the bounds you’d tied yourself with mentally. You just fall backwards into yourself, endlessly.

But, you can still feel everything.

You can feel him pushing your left leg up by the back of your knee, pushes it to rest next to your hip. You can feel your throat pulse against his palm and fingers, desperately moving in hopes of coaxing release. You can feel him roughly throw your right leg away from him, sideways on the bed, to give him more room to crawl up to your cunt. What you can’t feel is him grip his red engorged member and line up with your slick entrance.

Your vocal cords try to let out a scream, but all that comes is a small, wet sounding _uh_ , then silence.

He sinks in all the way to the hilt, with one fluid push of his hips. He’s seated and his hips are pressed into your skin so hard, you think it’ll leave a bruise. It’s scares you how much you needed this and how your body becomes undone at the first feeling of David inside you. It frightens you that the thing you’re most thankful for right now is that he doesn’t pause, he doesn’t wait. He pulls his hips back almost immediately and starts pounding into you, feral with the power behind it.

The most alarming thing though, is how hard you come when his hand some how gets tighter on your neck, how your back bends without your permission for a few long moments then collapses back on the bed. The leg not being held by your waist snaps to David’s hip, jerking with attempts to close. You feel yourself seize around him, your cunt fluttering then gripping around his cock. You’re so fucking wet, you feel where your thigh meets groin become slick with the excess you’re dripping.

A long, drawn out moan is ricocheting off the walls around you, the voice sounds so desperate. You think it might be coming from you, but it can’t be. You can physically feel your body still coming, yet your mind is continuing to recede. You wonder what his face reads at this moment. You so badly want to open your eyes to see him and watch this. But you can’t. You continue to fall and fall and fall… and then, it’s all gone.

You can’t feel him anymore.

You can’t feel anything.

You can’t think.

It all stops.

—- x —-

Adrenaline surges like electricity in your lungs as you regain consciousness. You breathe in the largest amount of oxygen possible before your eyes have the chance of opening, his hand no longer around your throat. Simultaneously, your legs and arms start to kick outwards, like a spasm you have no control over. You think you feel you right leg make contact with something, but you can’t focus on that.

Not as your eyes open, only to jerk around your surroundings rapidly, unable to focus. Your extremities feel numb and heavy and not like your own. You have no control over them as they settle from their flailing. You try to regain a normal breathing pattern from the heavy, hurried little gasps of air you’re letting out, but that’s futile. You’re fully hyperventilating when your eyes find David crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed, doubled over, only the top of his brown locks visible as his head hangs downwards.

The panic sets in quickly, which doesn’t help at all. You feel heavy and sluggish, a coldness rippling over your skin. He must be so angry. You fucked up, you are a _complete_ fuck up. The uneasiness makes time pass languidly. You tried to look away from his form, but you can’t. Your harsh breaths fill the silent room. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard the way they grate your ears. You use all your energy to bring your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around them, trying to be as tiny as you felt. You feel so small, so little. You just want him to look up at you, tell you it’s okay, he’s okay, _you’re_ okay.

“David,” you plead to him, sounding so tired and worn out you can’t believe it’s your voice. There should be a hole in the side of his scalp from your stare at this point.

The world around you feels like molasses. The adrenaline is slowly subsiding, which leaves way to a new panicked emptiness. The guilt and fear and low thrum of lost pleasure from your orgasm mix into one singular emotion you couldn’t put a name to if you had a gun to your head. Your frame shakes lightly when the ringing in your ears start.

“You kicked me in the stomach. Like, really hard,” he whispers, his head coming up, the profile of his face finally visible. His eyes are shut tightly so they appear crinkled. You can hear his voice above the ringing but only if you focus. His head turns and his eyes open to look at you. The features of his face contort to shock as he looks you over, his wrecked stare comes to your neck and doesn’t leave.

You can see his mouth moving, saying words, but you’ve lost the concentration to hear them. The ringing is too loud now. The atmosphere chokes you. You feel nothing but the shivers over every inch of your skin. He’s clambering onto the bed and towards you, you flinch without realizing. He stops instantly, pausing a foot or so away. His lips still moving over words you can’t hear. His eyes are frantically searching yours, but they just gaze back at him, empty.

With trepidation, his hand reaches out and wraps around your ankle, fingers so gentle on your skin that you can’t help to let your eyes slip close. That touch alone seems to shift everything back into place. Your breathing evens, not as labored and frenzied. The ringing gradually reducing in piercing volume with each full breath you drag in. Tiredness feels heavy in you, and starts to drop in as you lift your eyelids.

His face is unchanged with terror, boring into you. There’s no anger or disgust on his features, he looks worried. He never looks worried. Wetness hits the top of your knees that are still clenched in your arms. You look down at the tears, shiny on your skin and then back to David. You hadn’t realized you had been openly weeping. And he looks so sad, so guilty. You want to tell him not to, that you always push yourself too far. You want to scream with the internal energy building, you always fuck things up for yourself.

“Are- are you okay?” he asks softly, sounding like the man you had met all those months ago.

Your laugh in response is maniacal, especially juxtaposed next to your still crying face. It’s funny. All of this is funny in a weird, exhausting way. David doesn’t think so, the worry only grows on his face. He’s leaning in to bat your hands away from your legs and push them down from where they shielded you. He’s cupping your face like you’re the only thing precious in his life when he says, “(Y/N), please. Please tell me you’re alright. I’m _so_ sor-“

“Don’t!” You interrupt, all life exploding back into you suddenly, and you’re pushing his hands back and your entire body up in one go. You’re like a new born colt, the way your legs wobble as you push yourself away from the bed, and David. You’re facing him as you retreat, knowingly stepping closer to your pile of clothes on the floor by the door. Inching closer to freedom, where you don’t have to have this stupid fucking conversation.

God, you’re gonna puke. You’re gonna vomit on David’s expensive, white rug because he was nice to you.

How you keep moving in your exhausted state is beyond you. You’re turning around and grabbing some of the clothes up, still making your way closer to the door. The leggings are a struggle, and you’re very glad you aren’t facing him as you awkwardly pull them up your legs. Finally through the doorway, you pull the hoodie around you, unzipped and breast still fully on display.

Does he have roommates? Whatever, you couldn’t care less to remember if you tried at this point. You’re rounding his living space into his foyer when you notice he had followed behind you. He stops walking, a good ten feet behind and looks like he’s trying not to spook an animal when you turn to him, bending down to slid on your Vans.

Everything is still as you stand back to full height and look at one another. Neither of you know what to say. You’re not angry, you’re not hurt (not really) and neither is he. But, it feels different. You and him feel different.

You can’t help it when you mumble, “I fucking _hate_ apologies,” and slam his front door behind you.

—- x —-


	3. Three

—- x —-

The sky is starting to take on a soft deep blue as your Uber drives you home. You’re a fucking mess, leaking cum and only realized half way to your apartment that you’d left your shirt and socks at David’s when you stormed off. The driver, an older, stuffy looking woman, keeps glancing at you in the rear view mirror. Well, glancing at your neck.

You had flipped your camera on your phone frontwards shortly after you got in the car to check out your appearance, and then quickly closed it altogether when you saw the dark hand print around your throat. You couldn’t see that and not long to play with it, not long for David.

The lady clears her throat when you arrive at your destination, and turns in her seat to look at you fully.

“Are you gonna be okay, darlin’?”, she asks, her face riddled with concern.

You can’t keep in the chuckle that comes out and nod, “Yeah, no. I’m fine. Thanks, I guess.”

You’re not a battered woman if the evidence of your night gets you off. That’s not how it works. You love the end but not quite the means. It was… complicated. Even more so after tonight. You’re out of the car before the conversation can continue. And if you give her three stars, that’s your bitchy business.

The trek to your apartment, the same one you took hours ago (Only hours? Fuck, it felt like a lifetime ago), is sobering. Your body starts to slow to a crawl by the time you reach your door, and all you want is a shower and your bed. You lock your front door behind you and shed your clothes right there. You specifically avoid looking at yourself in any mirror as you coast on auto pilot. Making your way to the bathroom, your mind just keeps replaying the night.

You can’t remember if you passed out from oxygen loss or your orgasm. You’re turning on the shower when you realize that sort of bothers you. You don’t remember David coming in you, but it’s still leaking out as you wash him off your body. You can’t mentally recall kicking David, but you’re body could. His doubled over form had assured that to be true. The whole night feels hazier the longer you think.

You do remember the orgasm though and how it was ripped out of you by having all your breath cut off. You remember the moment you should have told David it was too much, but not wanting to. You’re not a docile person, if something rubs you the wrong way, you’re usually the first to let that be known. And you knew, you knew when he was pushing you into the mattress, crushing your throat, that was the moment you needed to tap out. You should have tapped out, but you didn’t want to. That was the last thing you wanted. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, stuck between wanting to breathe and wanting to come. You are beyond fucked up in the head.

Drying off your body, you have to confront the mark on your throat. Your gaze is bouncing everywhere but the slightly fogged up bathroom mirror. It must look so bad. You force your eyes to crawl to your form, force them to take in your neck.

There David was, marred into your throat. The dark brown bruises are like a billboard, announcing his name and intent for all to see. You know the black ink-like color will take hold by the end of the day, and that makes you feel better ( _sooo_ fucked in the head). You can see the distinct lines in the bruise that differentiate between his long, slender fingers and wide palm. As you lean closer to the mirror to inspect the marks more thoroughly, the edge of the sink digs into your pelvis, applying just enough pressure to your heat that a chill runs through your body. And fuck, you could totally start to rub back and forth slowly, press at your neck and coax another orgasm while thinking of that world shattering moan David let out when you came around him. If you had any energy left in your body, you probably wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

But, you pull back from you’re inspection and finish drying off your hair, leaving the bathroom in search of something suitable to wear to bed. Pulling at one drawer, then another, you think _fuck it_ , and fall into your bed naked. Your curtains are pulled open allowing the now fully risen morning sun to seep in, but it doesn’t bother you. It doesn’t stop your eyes from drifting closed, it doesn’t stop your mind from falling asleep, picturing David holding your face in his hands like you mattered to him.

—- x —-

As you wake, you’re extremely pleased that you texted your boss the night prior before going to bed, letting her know you were cashing in a few of your unused sick days. You figured you would want a couple days to let David’s bruises fade. Now you needed those days to reconcile the night you’d just had.

The light of the early evening bled into your room, casting a slight golden yellow onto your bed and walls. Your body feels weighted and you don’t really want to leave your cocoon of comfort. You don’t want to face your thoughts, you don’t want to keep repeating last night in your head. Smothering your face in a pillow, you let out a giant, sleep laden groan, willing yourself to heave your body up.

You feel a deep need to get drunk.

Your mid-evening breakfast is two day old, stale croissants from your favorite bakery and a triple gin and tonic. Hold the tonic. One drink turns into three turns into you death gripping your bottle of Beefeater on your balcony, chain smoking. Scrolling through your phone, your mind dizzy, distractions in the form of Twitter and Reddit, you feel better. Too drunk, but better. Examining the bottle you’re holding, you notice there’s only about of fourth of gin left. Your cigarettes have dwindled too.

Clumsily lifting yourself up and into your apartment, booze in hand, you stumble to your kitchen in search of more. Placing the last of the gin back into your freezer and pulling out a half drank bottle of vodka, you hear a knock at your front door. You sway only slightly as you reach the entrance, but your body dramatically slumps against the front door when you press your face to the peep hole.

David stands in the hallway looking very unlike the man you’d grown to know. He looks unsure and nervous, pulling at the hem of the faded black t-shirt hanging off his frame, left hand burrowed in the pocket of his black jeans. He’s staring at the peep hole like he’s looking right at you, and you can’t pretend you aren’t here. That’s not even an option after the loud thud of your body on the door. But, on the bright side, you’re drunk and feel more at peace than you would have sober when confronted with David.

You pull open the door, kicking away yesterdays clothes still piled on the floor. Your body weight is being braced by the door and you wave the hand holding the vodka at him. You slur, “I didn’t know you even knew which door was mine! What a sleuth you are.”

You leave the door open behind you, an unspoken invitation, as you turn heel to your living room. You’re collapsing on your couch when you hear your door click shut, you’re untwisting the cap to the vodka when he makes his appearance at the edges of the room. His entire frame is buzzing with nerves and his eyes are glued to your throat, much like the night before. Rolling your eyes, you extend the bottle to him, “Sit down, stop thinking and drink.”

His eyebrows raise questioningly, you can see the gears turning in his head as he eyes the bottle. Your arm shakes it at him enticingly. He folds, grabbing the bottle and collapsing into your arm chair adjacent to you. His eyes are shooting you an intense look when he raises the bottle and takes a drag out.

“What? You wanna have this conversation sober? I fucking don’t,” you laugh out at him.

You’re impressed when he doesn’t sputter or choke on the liquid when it goes down, his throat moving so prettily. You remember him telling you he doesn’t get sloppy drunk very often, but this definitely feels like an occasion that calls for it. He doesn’t stop pulling from the bottle after the first gulp. He keeps drinking.

“Trying to even the playing field, huh?” You say, cutting the silence as he finally lowers the bottle from his now red lips.

“Trying, that’s the key word. How drunk are you? You look wrecked,” he says around a grin, eyes doing a good job of meeting yours and not gawking at your neck.

“I’m drunk enough to stop feeling weird around you, but not drunk enough to vomit on you,” you tell him, reaching over and grabbing the bottle from him.

“You can totally vomit on me, if you need to. At this rate, you probably will,” he says, pointing at you pulling a decent mouthful of vodka before you set the bottle down on the coffee table in front of you.

“Nah, I went to Stanford. A good part of freshman orientation is how to hold your booze and not get alcohol poisoning. I’ll be fine. But you? Will you die from that drink you just took?” You joke with him, a large smile cracking on his face. You’re drunkenly giggling when you say, “Seriously, I’ve seen you pretty fucked up off of what, two, maybe three beers? That had to be three shots you just swallowed!”

“Oh, fuck you,” David laughs, leaning back in the chair to mirror your lax position on the couch. Your insides feel warm, and you try not to think about the fact that sitting here, laughing with him is so easy and pleasant and completely new to you both.

How had you bypassed getting comfortable with each other and jumped straight into the convoluted, power dynamics that was your fucked up relationship at the moment? Like what the fuck is wrong with the two of you?

“And, maybe I’m just agreeing with you about being sober for this,” he quips, answering your long forgotten reason for shoving the bottle at him in the first place. What a round about way to steer this conversation back to the inevitable. But fine, fuck it. The alcohol coursing through your body and mind pushes you upright and seated on the edge of the couch, his body copies your movements in his seat.

“I don’t know.”

It’s a simple, matter of fact statement from you. But it’s the only words that capture how you’re feeling about this.

“You don’t know, what?” he pries, you can feel his sight fluttering over you as you stare ahead towards the wall.

“I don’t know what to say… I don’t know about anything. Last night in particular. I kinda got drunk to not have to know. But, you’re here. And, can I tell ya, that’s a turn of events I didn’t see coming. You’re here. And my throat looks like this,” you ramble, pointing to it before continuing, “And I think your probably killing yourself with guilt, cause I know I am, and-“

“Wait, what?!” he cuts you off, recoiling just a bit in shock before leaning back forwards, edging on the chair closer to you. “What do you have to feel guilty for?”

“David,” you drawl his name out slowly like he’s stupid, turning to look directly at him, “I kicked you in the stomach probably hard enough to cause internal bleeding, I crazy-lady freaked out on you moments after you made me come, and then I stormed out of your house half naked at ass crack in the morning.” You eye him worriedly, hoping some of that made it through his thick head before he’s shaking his head no vigorously and standing up. He grabs the bottle from the table and heads for your kitchen, of course you follow.

“You have ice?” he bellows, you hear your cabinets open and close. You’re rounding the corner of the kitchen, sagging against the entrance, as he rifles through stuff to find a glass. “Because I’m definitely going to need more to drink if this is how you’re feeling about all this, (Y/N). Like, dude, c’mon!” He slams the cabinet closed, enunciating his last word with the sound. You don’t flinch, senses too dulled from the poison in your blood stream. It doesn’t stop your cackles from rising though, it doesn’t stop you from moving in on him like a predator.

“What?! What do you want from me?! How would you like me to feel?! Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to cry and mewl and act helpless and broken?” you roared, not really sure where such aggression is coming from, but continuing none the less, “You want me to grab my neck and accuse you of hurting me, blame it on you! You want me to act like I’m not a full fledged adult who understood, just as well as you did, the boundaries we were breaking?!”

He’s leaning back against the counter, taking in your words and tracking your walk, eyes full of anger. But, not the all-consuming rage you had grown accustomed to. No, his eyes burned with livid concern and angry pity.

You can’t stop.

“No, that’s not what you want, David. You want me, on my knees, unmoving, and calling you, _Daddy_ ,” your voice grows louder on that last word. You’re right before him and only inches apart now. Internally, you want to drop to your knees. You don’t. You don’t have the chance.

His hand is lunging out to pull your head forward and crash his lips onto yours. The fingers in your hair burrow, but don’t pull at all. You grip his shirt, balling in your hands, pulling his body off the counter and against you. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, turning your face to let him tilt in closer and massage his tongue deeper into your mouth. The entire kiss is rough and slow. No anger, no upper-hand, you’re both just feeling your way into it, like it’s been too long.

Coming to fit into the almost gone bruise on your jaw, his hand pushes you back, disengaging you both from the moment. His stare is more intense than you’ve ever seen it because there’s no anger. He’s not gazing through you, no, it’s like he’s staring in for the first time, and he never wants to look away.

Torn, that’s the word you would use to describe how he looks and sounds when he says, “No, I just want _you_.”

—- x —-


	4. Four

—- x —-

He _wanted_ you?

Yeah, he wanted you bent over, or on all fours, or gagging around him, that was apparent. But, that’s not what was implied. You’re sitting on your balcony, night fallen around you. You had left the kitchen in the moments of silence after he stopped your kiss, needing fresh air. You’re too sloppy to really take in all this. You can’t believe David even came over in the first place. How can you go from being so angry that you’re screaming at him, to melting into the kiss he’d pulled you into?

The whole point of the two of you was to avoid this bullshit. And now, here he was in your home forcing you to acknowledge the shit you’re trying to hide from.

The sliding glass door opens and David steps into the night, taking the seat directly across from you. He looks just as confused as you feel, eyes trained on the table. The sigh you let out is louder than intended and he looks up at you. There are words on the tip of his tongue that draw you in and leave you waiting for him to speak.

“Do you- have you had a panic attack before?”

You shake your head, silent, as it seems like he’s not done speaking. He pushes forwards to lean his forearms on the table.

“Do you know what Sub drop is?” Again, your head shakes no.

“Well, I think you had both last night. I, um, reached out to my friend, Ilya, good guy, don’t worry. I- well, we… him and I have talked about this,” he motions between the two of you, “before… and I don’t know. It feels weird to Google this shit right?!”

You nod slowly, trying to coax him into finishing his confusing monologue.

“Anyway, I was freaking out. I called him and asked, like what the fuck? None of his tales of rough sex have ever ended like it did last night. And, apparently I’m an idiot, for not setting up like, a safe word? I don’t know, he yelled at me though. Said I’m a fucking moron for not explaining I’ve been on edge at work and that our… session last night might be more intense. But it’s not like he told me that however many weeks ago, after the first time we…,” he trails off, eyes going soft and staring at your throat.

“And, I don’t fucking know, I didn’t think we needed to talk about it. If felt very… natural, the way things were going. You seemed to liked it, I always made you come and you were there whenever I asked you to be. I didn’t stop to _think_ , I guess. Everything that happened last night, was because I thought I was in control. I wasn’t, because I wasn’t making sure you were okay, and that’s a Dom’s job-“

No, you’d had it. You had followed his rambled train of thought up until the end, but no. That’s not right.

“Yeah,” you interrupt, desperately trying to dispel his obvious guilt, “but, isn’t it also my job to tell you when something isn’t working or is going too far? You can’t read my mind, you can’t just _know_ , I mean… I had opportunities to stop what was happening and I didn’t. Because I wanted to make you happy, and I wanted you to make me come.”

“Exactly!” He urged, slapping the white table top, “That’s what Ilya said. If I put you in a position where you would rather come than _breathe_ , that’s a fucking problem. I didn’t know, I didn’t know that’s how you felt until you passed out while I came in you, (Y/N)! I couldn’t, I couldn’t fucking breathe while I waited for you to wake up. Yeah, my stomach has a gnarly bruise, but fuck!”

There are honest to god tears in David’s eyes. You don’t think he’s ever talked to you this long about the two of you, ever. You want to hold him, which is something you had never wanted before. He sits, quietly, just searching your face for understanding.

“You, on the bed after,” he huffs out a short breath and runs his hand through his soft, dark locks, “That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. The worst thing I’ve ever caused. I wanted to vomit when you started laughing. I fucking broke you, (Y/N), don’t you get that? You were sitting on my bed, fucking out of your mind, because I didn’t know what I was doing. I sent you into a panic attack cause your body thought you were DYING without air! I pushed you into Sub drop, because I wanted to fuck you!”

He looks broken and small after his shouted words die, probably mirroring how you had looked last night. You want to wrap yourself around him and whisper it’s okay, _you’re_ okay, until he believes it. You lean in and wrap your fingers around his wrist, shaking him gently to grab his attention.

“I don’t know what Sub drop is, and I’ve never had a panic attack before, but you have to realize that wasn’t your fault alone. If anything it’s the result of how shitty we are in bed,” you assure him, rubbing small circles on his skin with your thumb, hoping to make him smile. “Last night was… bad. But. You’re here, and look at you, look how terrible you feel and how devastated you are. You have convinced yourself you’re the bad guy. Will you believe me when I say your not? You’re _not_. Not to me. We fucked up, but I’m not broken. I may be a little bruised and a little shook, but not broken. So, please, don’t do whatever this is. Don’t let this conversation be you saying goodbye. I don’t want that, I don’t want you to walk away from this.”

 _From us_ , you think, but don’t say.

He sniffles and takes your hand from his wrist. He traces the lines of your palm while staring at your hand. A tear from David face drops to the center, and he gently rubs it into your skin without looking away. The gesture is so symmetrical to the way he rubbed the tears on your face last night, fucking your throat without care. There’s so much care in the way his thumb makes tiny, concurrent circles on your palm. Your chest aches with a feeling you won’t give yourself the leeway to name.

“We do need to talk, about all this. Set up real boundaries and rules and whatever. Fuck yeah, let’s get a safe word. But, I don’t want to do this with anyone else but you. I will never trust anybody the way I trust you, especially after tonight,” you tell him, your voice slightly above a whisper. “I thought this was over, I thought… _Yup, he’s never going to want to look at me, let alone fuck me again_. But you showed up and I think that means something. So, please, stop this parade of self hatred and guilt and get on the same damn page as me. Move past this. With me.”

He finally looks up at you, eyes glassy with unshed tears and nods. You’re just drunk enough to pretend you don’t start instantly falling for him when he brings your hand up to his face and kisses the back of it. Gentle, kind, loving; not words you ever thought you’d describe this man as. But here he is, sweeping you off your drunken feet. You sit like this, his lips against your skin, unmoving in comforting silence for so long. You try to etch the image of David into your mind, his eyes closed, kissing your skin and holding onto you like a lifeline.

This is the moment everything changes for you two. You don’t really know that with any certainty yet, but the air around you both feels different, feels light for once.

“Yeah, no,” he says languidly, liquor and tiredness slowing his speech finally, “we should absolutely talk this through; I’m on the same book, page and sentence. But, I have a feeling we’ll accomplish more when sober.” He’s leaving quick, soft kisses to random spots on your hand in between words. Fuck you sideways, can you keep him forever? Or at the very least, the rest of the night?

You hum your agreement. You’re still so drunk and are now exhausted from your second encounter with David in one day. No orgasms the second time around, but hey, no mental breakdowns either. You call that a win.

Pushing yourself up for the table, you slip your hand away from David’s face and into his palm, intertwining your fingers. You’re pulling him to stand, then catching his swaying form before he falls over completely. The booze hits him hard now, not hitting at all while he was ranting. Standing definitely helped the process. David brings his head to rest on your shoulder, steadying himself in your embrace, when he asks, “Can we go to sleep?”

Five little words, with such innocent intention, knock you flat on you figurative ass. He’s never asked you for something as simple and complex as that. Sleeping with him, no sex? It feels like a giant step.

But, next thing you know, you’re pulling him back into your home and sliding the door closed before you can over analyze any further. You’re leading him into your room, guiding his clumsy body around the sharp edges of your apartment and pushing him into your bed. You flip the lights off and close your curtains tight, so the morning sun won’t get the chance to wake the two of you.

He’s trying to rip his black Vans off without untying them, when you throw your body into the warm embrace of your bed. It makes you giggle at him in the dark of your room, his soft laugh coming out to mingle with yours. You hear the shoes finally thud against a faraway wall as you slip your eyes closed and turn in bed to lay on your side facing him. You feel him lie closely next to you, his short breaths on your face letting you know he’s mirroring your position.

Your eyes don’t need to be open to feel him boring over your features. A smile finds its way to your face when you whisper, “Sleep, David. You wanted to sleep.”

“Shut up. I’m drunk and I want to look at your stupid face, okay?” He tells you, sweetly. You’re falling into unconsciousness now, the comfort of your bed and reassurance of David next to you pulling you into sleep.

And it’s entirely your business if you pretend you’re fast asleep when he leans over to kiss your forehead. It’s also entirely your business how intensely your heart flutters and swells before the seeping darkness of the night pulls you in.

—- x —-

Can _we_ go to sleep?

You think it’s that gesture that still has you gobsmacked when you awake in the morning to dry mouth, a pounding head and David snuffling lightly in your ear, big spooning the hell out of you.

We, is such a weird word in the context of your relationship with him. It had always been you and I, until last night. This is the first time since you’ve met David that you feel confident enough to actually recognize the word We as the best way to describe the two of you.

You woke up yesterday, ready to drown in your thoughts. Today though, you feel like you’re floating, his arms wrapped around your waist and holding you secure to his chest. Even with the hangover pulsing through your body, you’re swelling with a content feeling you’re not used to having towards the man cuddling you.

David’s pushing his head into your neck then, having to breathe in a mouthful of your hair when he yawns deeply. His hands push up your shirt, curling to rest on your lower stomach and his body is still wrapped around you, when he muses, “You know, you really do think so hard sometimes I can feel it.”

“Oh,” you croak through morning voice, amusement littering your words, “I’m sorry. Did I wake you from your slumber, your royal drunkenness? Or should I call you, your royal light weighted-ness?”

He pulls back from your body to let you settle on your back, still laying on his side, elbow bracing his weight. His eyes adoringly staring down, searching for something as he looms over you. A shiver runs up your spine, you don’t break his gaze.

Your body hurts from last nights alcohol, you should get some water and maybe take a shower. But, that’s not what you want. You want David to touch you, you want him to lean down and kiss you fully awake. You want him.

“If I kiss you with hungover morning breath, will you kick me out?” he playfully asks, brushing your hair away from your face, inching closer to you regardless of his previous question. “It’ll be worth it, though, if you do kick me out” he alluringly murmurs, lips brushing over your right cheek before making their way down and across your jawline, never fully placing a kiss, just teasing your skin, making it bloom with goosebumps in his wake.

“David,” you gasp, when his lips make their way to your earlobe, tongue poking out quickly before biting so lightly you can barely feel his teeth. He’s pulling back, briefly looking for permission in your eyes once more, before slotting his lips over yours. The hand not bracing his weight holds your jaw like it had last night, gently guiding the kiss to the right angles for him to explore your mouth.

The wanton moan that rips out of you is out of place. It’s the moan of someone being thoroughly fucked and all David is doing is stroking his tongue against yours. You’re pulling his body on top of yours with urgency, legs spreading to fit his hips over yours. Your hands ball up the hem of his shirt as his kiss trails from your lips and down your neck. He’s not biting or bruising you, no, he’s kissing your neck like he cherishes it. Your resulting noise is obnoxious, so you distract yourself by trying to pull his shirt off completely.

The look on his face is pained when he stops his barrage of kisses to sit up and pull his t-shirt over his head. Sitting back on his haunches, his places both hands on your lower stomach and slowly pushes upwards, dragging your shirt with him. The touch is as intimate as the way he looks at you. Like it’s the first time he’s seeing you underneath him.

He’s pulling your shirt off as he lifts your upper body upright and then lays you back on the bed. His hands cup your face and he’s all eye contact, knees bracing his weight over you, want clouding his vision. Your hands slip up to rest on his chest. You’re dragging your nails down lightly, stopping at the top of the his pants, fingers curling around the waistband. He swats your hands away and shakes his head no before pushing himself down, eye level with the sleep shorts you’d thrown on the day before. He looks up at you mischievously before mouthing your core right through the fabric.

You throw your head back on the pillow as he pulls the flimsy material down your hips and off your legs. Spreading your legs out, he makes himself comfortable while pulling at your lips, gazing at your heat like a hungry animal. When his tongue touches you clit, your body seizes and jerks on the bed, too much too soon. But, then he’s kissing his way down to your slit, tongue flicking around, coaxing wetness into his mouth.

Breathing evenly isn’t an option when he covers you with his mouth wholly, tongue flat against you, moving and fluttering. His finger slips up and circles your slit before pushing in. You can’t look at him, not without losing it completely. So, you arch your hips, pushing onto his finger and against his face. The moan you feel ripple against your cunt makes you gasp out in return. Then he’s curling the finger upwards inside of you, pushing against the sensitive spot he knows all too well by now, sucking your clit into his mouth.

He’s devouring you, the effort apparent in the way his wrist works and his tongue massages you. You hadn’t noticed your legs start to close in on David’s head until he’s pushing them up towards your chest, holding them slightly to the side with one hand so that he can continue his torturous ministrations. The tightness in your stomach is compacting and you haul yourself up on your elbows to look down at him for a moment, wanting to tell him you’re close. But then a second finger slides into you, eased in by how slick you are, and pushes right next to the first. Your lower body jerks toward him as you groan out his name, falling back flat on the bed.

His mouth still latched around you, he glances up, eyes alight and dancing with energy. His tongue begins to undulate against your clit, eyes locked to yours pushing you further to the edge. Your soft, little pants of breath egg him on, make him speed up his mouth and start to thrust his fingers, never ceasing the pressure on your g-spot.

“Daaavid,” you groan out, just watching him, watching his focused assault on your pussy. “David, I can’t, I’m gonna-,”

“C’mon, do it. I wanna make you feel good,” he interrupts, pulling back far enough to speak through a low, gravely voice, “I wanna make you come around my fingers, I wanna feel it. Come for me, baby girl. I know you want to. Be my good girl and come.”

That’s all you need, the reassurance that letting go will allow you to be the good girl you always want to be for him. Well, that, and the way he takes your clit back into his mouth and sucks so hard you start to see black. His fingers halt their thrusting and push up into your sweet spot, rigid, rubbing rough, tiny circles on it. Your body bends as you start to come, eyes clinched shut and a scream ripping from your chest.

You’re writhing on the bed, still coming when you notice that David hasn’t slowed, he isn’t working you down from your bliss-ed out state. He’s fucking you vigorously with his fingers again, tongue laving around your folds. And your falling orgasm doesn’t stop, it starts to peek again. Your hands tangle in his hair, unsure of if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Your hips are trying to jump forwards and back, but the hand holding your legs back press you harder into the bed, stunting their movement.

It’s too fucking much, you think, twitching on the bed, noises spilling out of you. You can’t comprehend the pleasure tearing through you when you start to fall into your mind. You’re losing consciousness again, but it’s not alarming like before. You’re falling into ecstasy and you welcome the feeling as you plunge fully into darkness.

—- x —-

You’re pulled back by soft kisses on your stomach, trailing their way back and forth across your abdomen. You’re body is still shivering lightly, out of your control, and you don’t want to open your eyes. David’s gentle laugh against your skin wills them apart though. His face is damp and red, hair standing up at all ends. He tilts his head up to look at you, hands caressing your sides. The lazy smile on his face makes your entire being throb.

“See, I’m all for you passing out like that,” he sassed, moving off your body to lay next to you, “That was hot as _fuck_.” He’s tucking you hair back to give way to your neck, leaning in to lay one loving kiss that makes you shudder. He weakly groans out, “So fucking sensitive,” and buries his head in your neck to fully mouth at the skin, pulling shiver after shiver out of you.

He tears himself away after a few moments, looking like he’s using all his will to not dive back in, as he settles back against the pillow next to you. You can’t help sitting up and reaching down to the front of his jeans. He’s hard against his zipper, but he swats your hand away, like earlier.

“No, but don’t worry. I’ll let you take care of that later, baby girl,” he grunts, sounding firm yet unsure. You just want to taste him though, you want to disobey him and swallow him whole. He glances over, smirk across his features, and brings his hand to caress your cheek. “You did so good for me, sweet girl. I’ll let you taste me later, okay?”

You nod submissively with a pout on your face. You don’t plan on letting him forget that.

His hand moves down to trace the bruise on your throat. You hadn’t seen it in a while, it’s probably still mostly black with blue bleeding into the edges. His fingers press into it, applying just enough force that pain lightly blossoms, and you moan. Your eyes slip closed and you fucking _moan_.

There’s silence when you drag your eyes open, embarrassment flooding your face when you notice his wide, hungry eyes going back and forth from your gaze to your neck. David looks wrecked, laying on your bed, discovering the pain from bruises gets you off. You can see the gears turning in his head as a maniacal grin takes over his face.

He’s sitting up, pulling you into his lap, when he remarks, “Oh, _oh no_. Does baby girl get off to the marks I leave her with? What am I going to do with you?”

You don’t know the answer to that, but you’re excited to find out.

—- x —


	5. Five

—- x —-

It’s been a week since David spent the night. After a  _great_  morning in bed and some breakfast, you’d both sat and laid down some ground rules.

You let him know that stringent guidelines with severe punishments all the time wasn’t going to work for you; you sucked at following them and at the end of the day, you got off most on making him happy (and bruises, you liked bruises). That didn’t mean you disliked the roughness or his domineering, you just thought it should be a 70/30 split between complete submissiveness and passiveness, the later taking first place.

That made sense to him, and he explained that he enjoyed being obeyed, got off on doting on you when he was pleased and, when his work was getting the best of him, he loved taking complete control. That was a compromise you were more than happy to make as long as that was communicated and real boundaries were established before hand.

Then, all serious business aside, you reminded David of his earlier promise and came just from blowing him on your couch.

—- x —-

It was such an easy conversation in retrospect, you feel a little dumb for avoiding it for so long. But, more had opened between you and David than just clear pathways of dialogue. You had both seemed to give silent permission to open the door on getting to know each other.

He was now sending you stupid, little ten second videos of his life with one word captions of how he feels about what’s going on. You were Snapping him random pictures of the different boardrooms you were in several times a day, adding text over them, complaining about the nonsense you had to deal with on the daily. You were getting these little glimpses into each other’s lives, and it felt like the borders of your relationship were being broken and reformed, larger and larger with each passing message.

Then, he asks you to dinner.

Not to come over half past way too fucking late, not stealthily in the night, crawling in and out of his home like you don’t belong. He asked you to join him in the early evening, out in public, to have a meal with him. You’re shocked, floored really. You have to set your phone down, lean back and assess the situation for a little while.

That really changes everything, huh? No more fucking your tensions away and fleeing. No more pretending you don’t listen to his stupid podcast every once and while to understand the man behind the orgasms. No more ignoring the fact that your late night booty calls have been getting suspiciously closer together over the last month or so. Fuck, that’s a big step… a leap really, a jump over a death canyon. You text him back,

**Absolutely.**

—- x —-

You’re torn between a respectable, body-con black dress and this short, deep royal blue number with the sides cut out to tease a little. You want to look good for him  _and_  not like you’re trying too hard. But really, what’s the point in that? You both have been playing try hard since you saw each other last. You go with blue.

You’re nervous, taking what feels like the first step to cementing a functioning relationship with the man you’d only considered a fuck buddy for so long. He’d made the first move though, by asking. You can’t be rejected if you didn’t extend the invite, right?

A voice in the back of your mind is screaming you’re an idiot, all he wants is a quick fuck and to wade through his kinks, don’t trust him. But you quiet that bitch and finish your makeup and hair.

The bruise around your throat is a dull yellow with streaks of a nondescript brown running through it. You look to your concealer and ponder, cover it up or no? It’s still visible for anyone who looks at you longer than a couple seconds, but you want him to see it, you want him to push on it again and make you whimper. You decide against hiding his mark, wearing it like a badge of honor.

There’s a knock at your door as you’re exiting your room and pulling your heels on. He’s ten minutes early, like always. You look around your home one last time, remembering briefly his visit a couple nights ago, before greeting the man.

David’s wearing a nice pair of jeans and a black button up under a faded black denim jacket. If blue was your color, black was definitely his. He has this smirk on his lips that make you want to say fuck it to dinner and pull him inside. You don’t get a chance as he’s wrapping himself around you and bear hugging your frame. He smells of cologne and apple shampoo, and you lean into the embrace, feeling safe and wanted. He seems to be contemplating the night out as well when he pulls back to look at you with a pained expression and says,

“You look so fucking good, like holy fuck. I- we don’t have to go-”

“Oh no,” you interrupt, pushing him back into the hallway and locking your door, “This was your idea, Dobrik. You’ll take a girl out before you fuck her tonight.”

He laughs and follows you down to the parking lot, specifically trailing behind you, eyeing the way your hips sway. It feels like a proper date and there’s a thrill running through the air between you two. From the way he grabs you from behind, walking closely, head next to yours murmuring on about how sexy you actually look, to the way he reaches over you once you’re seated in his car and buckles your seat belt. He pauses while leaning over you, and touches your neck, whispering, “This is my favorite part.”

You melt, frozen in place in your seat, wanting him to do anything, as long as he touches you. He just barely kisses the edge of the bruise and he’s back to his seat, pulling the car out. Your left flustered while he smirks and leans his elbow on the console, hand hanging, waiting for yours. You interlace your fingers with his and he just plays lightly with them while asking you about your day. The emotional whiplash you have now leaves a pleasant confusion inside you. You enjoy the teasing atmosphere of the night.

(Even if you actually want him to pull over and make the bruise around your throat darker.)

—- x —-

He sits beside you in the round booth the entire meal, pressed along your side and arm holding you against him. It makes you feel so secure, your nerves no longer buzzing. He’s taken control of the situation and it makes you want to preen at him and bury yourself in his embrace. His fingers keep wandering to the mark on your neck throughout the night, lightly tracing and only every once and while pushing hard enough to make you let out a needy little sound. He knows what he’s doing, turning your head to look at him while you groan each and every time.

He’s intoxicating and you’re honest to god losing focus on the world outside the two of you. His head thrown back in laughter, the way his eyes darken when you rest your hand on his chest whispering something dirty in his ear, the wine he sputters on when the same hand moves up his thigh suggestively. He’s all you can see and he’s all you’d ever want to see. But you’re pushing hard on his limits and you can tell.

“Baby, do you want me to have to add my rings to the mark around your neck or are you going to behave while we’re at dinner?” He asks you after dessert had arrived at the table and he’d stopped your hand away from playing with his zipper.

“Can I have both?” You answer back, a coy grin on your face as you settle back into his hold, pulling your hands back to your own lap. “I’ve never seen you wear rings before and I absolutely want those added to your mark.”

“My mark, huh? I guess it is,” he comments, placing a long kiss on the bruise, “How’d you get by with this all week at work?”

His lips don’t move from your skin, words mumbled out around your neck. You have a hard time formulating words of your own until he pulls back.

“Turtlenecks,” you inform him, lost in his gaze. You really want to be on his lap, kissing him breathless, not here at some restaurant pretending the dessert in front of you is going to be eaten. It’s apparent he feels the same when he flags down the nearest waitress and gets the check.

You’re banished from his arms as he pays and gets ready to leave. You’re vibrating now but not from nerves, from want. His hand on your wrist pulling you out of the booth and down to the parking garage promises more. And you want more from David, you want everything.

That’s why you’re willingly wrapping around his body when he slams you against the side of his Tesla and begins kissing you dirty with too much tongue. It’s exactly what you wanted all night. His hand is sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers sliding up and up and up and he gasps, pulling back, shocked and smirking.

“No panties? In this dress? People are gonna think you’re a little slut, we don’t want that do we,” David’s saying, forehead resting on yours, panting just a bit. Your legs are wrapped around his hips and you can feel his hardness through the denim pressed against your bare skin.

“But, I’m  _your_  slut, Daddy,” you purr, lips brushing his ear and trailing down to his neck, sucking and kissing the sensitive skin. He’s trying to compose himself, his tiny, quick breaths betraying him, and you roll you hips once right before he drops you to your feet.

“Get in the back, behind the passenger seat,” he’s ordering, slapping your ass as you make your way around his car. You don’t understand why he wants you back there, but you happily listen to his request. He’s driving out of the lot before he speaks again.

“Are you sure you’re  _my_  little slut?” David asks, setting the car to auto drive and angling the rear view mirror to look at you with ease. You nod yes to his question as he continues,

“Because when you’re Daddy’s slut, and you decide to go out to dinner without panties, he punishes you. So, I’ll ask one more time, are you  _sure_  you’re mine?”

His gaze is so serious, eyes not faultering from yours in the thin mirror. You know this is a cue, you can tap out or negotiate the night, but he hasn’t mentioned wanting complete control, so you are more than willing to slide into this scene with him. You nod again, murmuring, “Yes, Daddy, I’m yours.”

“Safeword?” He smirks.

“Glory.”

“That’s my good girl. Now, as for punishment, I want you to lift those legs over the arm rests and pull your dress up. Let me see how wet you are,” he commands, and you can’t meet his eyes. You’re flushing when you lift the dress and angle your hips toward the mirror. And you are embarrassingly wet, your thighs shiny in the passing street lights. “Such a good girl. Next, I want you to touch yourself. You can move and make all the noises you want, but you will tell me when you’re about to come. Do you understand?”

Your fingers had already pushed down into your folds before he finished and you moan out  _Yes Daddy_ , throwing you head back against the seat. There’s a chill running over your body, an excitement from being watched by David, from knowing that if someone is angled correctly at the front of his car they would see everything. It makes you whine as your fingers slid down and collect your slick before gliding back up and teasing your clit.

“You look so pretty, little girl. Touching yourself for Daddy, does it feel as good as me?” He’s asking through labored breath. You’re vigorously shaking your head  _no_ , panting into the car. Too wet, you’re too wet already, and you think it must be leaking onto his leather seats. You can’t stop or care in the moment though. Each and every one of David’s words bringing you closer to the edge. “That’s the right answer, baby. I’m sure you can make yourself feel good, but you’ll never make yourself come like I can, huh?”

“No, Daddy. Never. Only you. Only wanna come for you.  _Daaaaaaddy_ ,” you’re rambling, fingers stretching your opening, teasing, but not pushing all the way in. You’re so close, so you tell him, “I’m, Daddy I’m gonna-,”

“Stop, now! Take your hand away,” and it’s like stopping a freight train, you have to use all the will inside you to pull away from your heat. But you do, you want to be his good girl all night. “Thank you for telling me sweetheart, you behave so well for me. I think you’ve earned a treat, don’t you?”

“Yes!  _Please_ , are you gonna let me come?” You ask hurriedly, hand posed to dive right back to work. But he shakes his head, laughing.

“No, but I’m gonna let you blow me the rest of the way home. And if you can make me come, I’ll let you ride me later tonight. How does that sound?”

That sounds like a deep seeded fantasy, and also  _fuck yes_. You’re moving up the car swiftly to sit sideways in the front seat and perch on your knees, waiting for him. You can’t help licking your lips or the way you lightly press a hand to your mound to relieve some pressure from between your legs. Waiting for permission, you watch as he pushes the denim halfway down his thighs and pumps his already hard cock several times, relishing in the feeling.

A sideways glance is all you need from David before you’re leaning over and taking him in your mouth, swallowing around him until you gag. But you don’t let up, you let yourself gag around him until your throat adjusts. His fist is pressed against your lips, still holding himself tight. You push your tongue to flick at the fingers until he removes them and you can actually take him all the way down.

“ _Fuck_ , pretty girl. You really are a little slut, huh? You like the way Daddy tastes?” He’s moaning into the car, playing with your hair. You can only nod as you start to bob you head, sucking around him on the upstroke and laving your tongue down the pronounced vein on the downstroke. He’s swearing softly, but letting you work him over.

There’s spit coming down the sides of your lips, making a mess, but the obscene wet sounds only make him groan louder. You have your hands propped on his thigh, holding your weight as devour him. You sincerely hope you look like a sordid whore for him, and you desperately want him to look wrecked when you’re done.

No hands, just swallowing him whole and worshiping your mouth around him, he grows quiet. He’s gonna come. David grunts and his hand tightens in your hair when you slip down on his cock the last time. Holding you in place, you flutter your throat around him as he comes. He’s too far in and you can’t help swallowing all he gives. Not a drop dribbles out. You don’t stop your ministrations until he’s pulling you off of him and into a open mouthed kiss, like he enjoys the taste of himself.

There is slick running down your thighs properly now as he searches your mouth with his tongue, fucking in and out, leaving you to moan wantonly in his hold. He pulls you back by your hair, his face flush and mouth hanging open just a bit (the sight alone makes you try to squeeze your legs closed so you don’t leak anymore than you already are) and whispers against your lips,

“Such a good girl for her Daddy,” he praises, “And you swallowed all my come? God,  _fuck_ , what am I gonna do with you, baby? So hot, so fucking well behaved.”

You are  _actually_  preening in his hold, warmth spreading through your body for making him so happy. You think you could come from just this, from his words and the way he strokes your cheek so softly, like he adores you.

“I fucking love you,” he says, capturing your lips again, sliding the drivers seat back as far as it’ll go and hauling you over to straddle his lap.

And you let that sentiment go for the time being as David pulls you into a heated, slightly unsafe make out in his Tesla. You can’t bring your mind to focus on that as he ravishes you the entire way back to his house.

His words hang in the air though, electricity coursing around the two of you as you lose yourselves in one another.

—- x —-


End file.
